Screwed
by RainbowMist
Summary: after being caught by the FBI for the second time in a year, Sam's not feeling particularly optimistic. Missing Scene for "Jus In Bello" Gen, despite a somewhat provocative title. Rated T for language only.


**Author's Note:** This is a missing scene for _Jus in Bello_, it just came to me one night when I was wondering what was going through Sammy's head in that scene where Henriksen was taunting them outside the cell, since he didn't say a word the whole time. So it takes place right after Henriksen leaves, I think I took a bit of a liberty between the time Henriksen left and Demon Peter DeLuise shot Dean, but it's a short story, so I don't think I'm pushing it too badly. I hope you enjoy it, I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. It's a wee bit angsty, it's rated T for language and it's gen. 

**Disclaimer**: I do not own them, Eric Kripke does. Him and Warner Brothers 

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_W_e_ are so screwed, _Dean had said it after their first run-in with Henriksen at the bank in Milwaukee, but as it turns out, that wasn't screwed. Not yet. They had been sitting in the Impala about to finish up their incredible _Ocean's Eleven_ getaway at the time. Not screwed. They'd had to stay under the radar their entire lives, so what if they had to be a little more careful? This, right now? _This_ was _screwed_. Sitting in a cage, chained to your brother with guards at the doors and a helicopter on the way? This was completely and utterly fucked. 

As Agent Henriksen strutted out of the holding area, undoubtedly to make a call to the nearest restaurant that carried surf'n'turf, Sam involuntarily nudged closer to where Dean sat on the lumpy mattress which, to be honest, was probably more comfortable than some of the ones they'd had to sleep on over the years. Sam had been a law student in another life, so he knew all about the supermax prisons, knew about the history and controversy surrounding them, and knew that the threats made by Henriksen were not unfounded, or even much of an exaggeration. He knew that Dean probably thought the FBI agent was simply trying to get a rise out of the two of them by making shit up, or otherwise thought there was any way to possibly get out of this mess, since he still seemed even the slightest bit hopeful. Mostly Sam knew that, right now, he wanted to sit closer to his brother. 

They sat there in silence for a few moments after Henriksen had left, they listened as the chopper circled a few times, looking for a place to land. Sam could tell Dean was wracking his brain, trying to figure out how the hell they were supposed to get out of this one. "Given up" was a strong term, but Sam really couldn't see how getting out was possible at this point. Dean seemed to be able to read his thoughts.

"So, lawyer-boy," he started glancing over at Sam, "In your professional opinion, how screwed are we?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question, Dean?" asked Sam in disbelief.

"Sure," responded Dean, "scale of one to ten, ten being about as fucked as a person can be…"

"Well," said Sam like he was actually putting thought into it, "considering how well the shapeshifter defense usually flies, I'd give us a solid…ninety-nine." 

"Sarcasm doesn't look good on you, Sammy," replied Dean. Sam managed to give his brother a small smile, but he'd meant it. Dean seemed to get that too, because the next thing he said was an earnest, "We'll get out of this." 

Sam nodded, but he still wasn't feeling the slightest bit optimistic. He really really wanted to be, because the alternative to some sort of miraculous escape was not something he wanted to contemplate. The problem was that "miraculous" was exactly the right term, for nothing short of a miracle would get the Winchesters out of their current predicament. 

"It's too bad you didn't get to finish law school," said Dean suddenly, out of the wild blue yonder. Okay. Not the next thing Sam would have expected to come out of his brother's mouth.

"What?" was all he managed by way of response.

"You know," explained Dean, "If you were a lawyer, then people like us could be like, 'oh yeah, it was a shapeshifter who framed me for those murders' and then you'd believe us."

"Still wouldn't explain the credit card fraud, though," replied Sam looking in his brother's direction with a small, but genuine, grin.

"If they don't want us to run credit card scams, they should pay our asses," said Dean with conviction.

"Who?" asked Sam, letting a chuckle escape in spite of himself.

"I dunno- the government?"

"The government?" 

"Why not? We provide a valuable service!" Dean paused for a second, seemingly caught in his thoughts momentarily, "it'd make a hell of a lot more sense than…"

"Locking us up in supermax?" finished Sam somberly. 

"Yeah," replied Dean, "how is that fair?" To the casual listener, Dean would have sounded like his usual smugly impassive self, but Sam could hear the elusive undertone of vulnerability and knew that Henriksen's taunts had hit home with his brother as well. At least they were on the same page. 

"Since our M.O. makes us look like Satan-worshiping psycho killers, I guess," offered Sam. The truth was, there was nothing fair about this entire situation. That after all the fucked-up shit that happened in Florida and afterwards… they were about to be locked up in separate dark cement boxes that might as well be five-hundred miles apart for the amount of communication that was possible between them, even in the unlikely event Sam and Dean ended up right beside each other. That they'd have to stew by themselves each day in the knowledge that the hellhounds would come for Dean long before any jury had the chance to convict him on his capital charges. That Sam would lose any chance, however slim, that he had to do anything to prevent it. That he couldn't even be there… He'd lose his mind. He couldn't do it, there had to be a way out of this.

Except that he really couldn't see one. After everything that had happened he wouldn't have thought the law would be the deciding factor in their fate. Not some supernatural entity, just society's rules, the ones that often had to be broken in favor of helping people, the same ones that at one point he'd studied so carefully, hoping one day to make a living out of using to his advantage. An odd notion considering the lawless existence their family led for the vast majority of his life. The only good the knowledge could do him now was allow him to understand, in excruciating detail, the many thousand ways in which they were screwed. 

He inched as close as Dean would allow him.

"Dude, don't go gettin' clingy on me," chided Dean, although he didn't make a move to distance himself, "we're gonna find a way out of this." He was sincere, but there was less confidence this time.

"We're gonna have to," replied Sam, coming off sounding more like his five-year-old self than he'd intended, "cuz I don't think I can… I don't think I could deal with the alternative."

"Yeah, me either," agreed Dean quietly, there was a long pause, then he ventured cautiously "you know this stuff, right? Is it as bad as he said?" 

Sam thought on it for a moment, before reluctantly opting for the truth, figured it was better than an unpleasant surprise. He let out a deep breath before saying a resigned, "if not worse." Dean was silent. He looked away from Sam and nodded his head a little, like he was expecting as much. "On the plus side," Sam added uselessly, "you don't have to worry about cell mates." His brother looked at him again; Sam gave him a weak, humourless smile, Dean responded in kind.

"Well, when you're as pretty as we are," replied Dean in an admirable, yet not at all convincing, attempt at positivity, "that's some sorta plus." 

"Yeah," said Sam lamely, looking at the floor, needless to say that didn't comfort him a hell of a lot. The brothers were sitting with their backs against the wall of the cell now. They were sort of unconsciously leaning against each other, a united contemplation of the crushing gravity of the situation, how this day really couldn't possibly suck any more. Sam had heard the helicopter land; they didn't have much planning time left. It didn't seem to matter. Right now the plan seemed to consist of staying right where they were, taking comfort in what was really very casual physical contact, simply the fact that the other was there. Sam made a point of committing the sensation to memory, in the awful, but sickeningly real, chance that it was all they would have to carry them through the coming months. Sam had the impulse to put an arm around his brother, and could tell Dean had a similar one. But they didn't do it. Because that was tantamount to admitting that they absolutely weren't getting out of this, and that wasn't something he felt ready to do. Instead, he sat there leaning against his brother and willing that miracle to happen. 

It was then that they heard footsteps approaching, Dean jumped to his feet, a conditioned response, a drilled-in survival instinct. Sam sat up at attention, fully prepared to put up an admirable fight against anyone who would forcibly try to separate him from his brother. A well-dressed man in his thirties or forties entered, pulling over the sliding metal door that separated the holding area from the rest of the precinct. Warning bells started going off in the back of Sam's head. The man strode up to their cell with a smug smile, called them by name, and introduced himself as a higher-up in the FBI. Then, before either brother had the chance to react, the bastard pulled a gun and proceeded to shoot Dean in his left shoulder for the second time in about a year. Dean went down, and Sam's protective instincts went into overdrive. He wrestled the gun from the apparently possessed guy (who didn't stop shooting at Dean) and managed to get the demon to leave his body. It uttered a vague threat before it fled through the air ducts. Of course, the commotion caused by the exorcism and the gunshots was enough to bring Henriksen, and every other cop in the building, down on the Winchesters, fully armed and demanding an explanation.

What the boys had on their hands by the time they were left alone again was a severely bleeding bullet wound in Dean's shoulder, a dead body, a vague but very worrisome demonic threat, complete with some weird shit outside to back it up, and a royally pissed-off Agent Henriksen who was now more convinced than ever of their psycho-killer status. Nonetheless, as Sam tended to Dean's shoulder with nothing more than inadequate prison toilet paper, he couldn't seem to suppress a strange hopeful feeling. It certainly wasn't the miracle he hadn't allowed himself to hope for, but there was a chance now, a problem that they could deal with, and that was something.

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**End Note**: I read up on Supermax on the almighty Wikipedia, and that's a pretty crappy fate for Our Intrepid Heroes, and I liked the idea of Sam the former law student being very aware of this. I also like that I unintentionally gave some context for Sam's "don't be such a wuss" to shot!Dean, which some thought was an odd way for him to react after _Mystery Spot_. Maybe I'm smarter than I thought...

Anyway, I hope you liked my story, thanks for reading it! 


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